


Stages of knowing

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale is the kinky one, Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Character Study, Emotional Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, French Kissing, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Romance, Rough Sex, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Smut, Tenderness, Top Crowley (Good Omens), basically a short novel about angels learning to fuck, basically settle down because we’re going through all the bases from first to last, bit of idiot plot, so much fluff ew don't even look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 08:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: “So this is the famous Alpha Centauri you wanted to go to. And it’s two stars.”“It’s a star system, actually. But generally you can only see the two.” Crowley keeps talking like he’s reading from a book. “Those two are a binary star. That’s two separate stars that share a barycentre and orbit around it. One single gravitational unit.”Aziraphale feels a tug in his chest. Crowley’s tone is detached, matter-of-factly, and it does not fool him one bit. He turns back slowly, with the same grace he’s used throughout history not to scare particularly spooky horses.~~~Heaven and Hell have another try at destroying Aziraphale and Crowley. In the meantime, the two of them develop a relationship, passing through various stages of intimacy.





	1. Requited

**Author's Note:**

> We’re doing chapters now because apparently I keep vomiting words.  
Sensible people would publish one chapter at a time. Good thing there’s only me here, and I’m dropping the whole thing at once.
> 
> You can skip any/all the NSFW parts without losing the thread of the story. It’s mostly just them being dumb and in love and dumb.  
There's very minor violence and a bout of deeply loving rough sex but it should all feel very very safe.

As it turns out, there are still ways to surprise an angel who’s older than the world itself.

For example, Aziraphale had never experienced sheer panic before. Anxiety, sure – lots and lots of it. It came in waves, sometimes it lasted for entire decades. It would wear him down little by little, until he was so exhausted he couldn’t even worry anymore. Anxiety cooked him slowly but surely, leeching off his energy until he felt hollow and useless.

Panic – now that’s almost the opposite. Panic is a surge of energy. Manic, crazed energy, with no outlet. Panic is loud, unreasonable, intense, and makes him feel like he’s about to discorporate there and then. His heart pulses as if it’s about to explode. There’s nothing wrong with him, technically speaking – he’s as healthy as he’s always been. And yet his thoughts barrel through his brain like rats on a sinking ship.

What brought this on, anyway?

It might have something to do – okay, it has_ everything_ to do – with a certain demon lying unconscious in Aziraphale’s bed. The angel sits on a chair by the bed, curved over that body that’s never appeared so frail before, so close to breaking. He has a pile of books – he got anything he could put his hands on that seemed remotely useful. He has a thick, modern volume on human anatomy. He has one on the constitution of demons written by a thirteenth century saint. He has a few booklets about different ailments and remedies. He has a magazine that boasts the benefits of Bach flowers, and a peer-reviewed journal that details the latest and greatest medical findings. Just to be sure, he also threw in there a tome explicatively titled _Keeping your pet snake healthy: the complete edition_.

But all the human and divine knowledge is failing him right now, because nothing he’s doing seems to make Crowley better. It’s been more than a day now, and he’s still unconscious, and Aziraphale was slapped in the face with the thought that he might, after all, end up all alone on this Earth.

He doesn’t belong to Heaven anymore, and, surely, he doesn’t belong in Hell. This world is his home now, which is what he chose for himself, just – he’d never thought he’d enjoy it alone. For all of eternity, just him and the temporary comfort of humans. Fragile, flickering lives. Barely enough to get to know them, really.

This has been his greatest fear since the moment they became friends. He’s told him – he’s told him time and again. _What if they find out? What if they destroy you? _He didn’t say, but thought it all the same _– what if I lose you? What do I do with this world if you’re not in it?_

There’s one upside to panic – it doesn’t last. It can’t. What shoots up has to crash down, it’s a law of physics. Or, well, he’s not sure if it’s an actual law of physics. But it sure works well to describe the descent of his nerves back into a semi-normal state.

He frets over Crowley. Once again, he checks his forehead, which is cool. He scouts for any broken bones, bruised limb, malfunctioning organ. He finds nothing. Everything is fine with him. And yet something has to be wrong, otherwise he’d open those beautiful golden eyes of his and look back at him, and ask him why the heaven he looks so worried. He’d straighten himself up and come to his rescue, like he always does. Aziraphale is quite sure Crowley has a bit of a fantasy involving himself as the dashing hero, sweeping in to save the day. He smiles. He’d put himself in danger a hundred times if it meant Crowley would wake up and run to him, with all his fake confidence and his even faker dislike of praise.

He lets out a tired sigh and rests his head on the demon’s chest, feeling his heart beating, his lungs slowly rising and falling. At least, he’s still alive. He has to be. There’s so much Aziraphale still needs to tell him. So much he still needs to show him.

* * *

The days after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and the Switch were Heaven. Better than Heaven, in fact. They were finally free. At first, they were cautious, spending their time holed up in Aziraphale’s bookshop, or going to the movies, or getting dinner at small restaurants where they felt safe.

Then, as time went on and nothing happened, they became more daring. They started going on walks together, stopped for ice cream, relaxed on picnic blankets in the sunlight. All out in the open. And their fears dissolved, slowly.

At the beginning, after the Garden, they saw each other once every millennium. Then it became once a century. And then once every fifty years. Once every ten years. Once a year. Multiple times a year. The half-life of their loneliness kept decreasing, chipped away by their growing friendship.

The whole mix-up with Warlock and Adam meant they spent six years seeing each other every day, working together to sway the supposed Antichrist.

After they gained their freedom from their respective sides, that didn’t change. They still saw each other almost daily, but this time by choice. Crowley would sprawl on Aziraphale’s couch when the shop was closed and he wanted to take a nap, and, during the day, he would often be in the backroom, playing games on his phone or peeking through the pages of a book – rigorously when Aziraphale wasn’t looking. Aziraphale, on his part, would show up at Crowley’s flat on Saturday and Sunday morning, bringing coffee, tea, brunch, pastries, whatever he fancied that day. They’d play chess or go out together, enjoying their newfound freedom.

Crowley brought a plant to the bookshop, a CD player, a charger for his phone, a toothbrush, a compact mirror. Aziraphale slowly built a pile of books on Crowley’s desk, filled his pantry after finding it depressingly deserted, and started lovingly naming his plants (much to the demon’s dismay).

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him whenever he caught Crowley doing something nice, or kind. On a particularly cold morning, he saw the demon checking the tires of his car before turning it on. Alone, this action wouldn’t have been strange. What sparked his interest was seeing Crowley also checking the tires of the car parked in front of him, and then of the car parked behind him. When asked, he didn’t give an explanation beside a half-hearted shrug and a dismissive sound that meant nothing at all. A few days later, Aziraphale got it in his head to try his hand at cooking, and went grocery shopping. As he was paying, the cashier reminded him with a smile to check his tires before starting his car. “How come?” he’d asked. “Haven’t you heard, sir?” The cashier replied, “When it’s very cold cats tend to burrow themselves underneath cars to warm themselves up. My, I sure hope everyone gets into the habit of always checking first.” Aziraphale had beamed at her, and, surely, she must have thought he was a little touched in the head.

The corner of Crowley’s mouth curved up just a fraction whenever he spotted Aziraphale being a bit of an asshole. This, actually, happened on a regular basis, particularly when someone tried buying one of his books or coming into the bookshop with a cup of coffee in their hands. One that stood out to Crowley, for no particular reason beside the complete ‘Aziraphale-ness’ of it, was the night he overheard him talking almost to himself, bent over a book. “They misspelled ‘Czechoslovakia’ here…” He’d said, then flipped back to the beginning of the book and gasped out loud. “In a _fifth_ edition! One would think they would have noticed by now…” Crowley had barely kept his face straight.

Their merry routine came to a crashing halt when, one day, two unexpected visitors came into the bookshop, looking for them.

* * *

An angel and a demon. An angel Aziraphale had never seen before and, by the look on Crowley’s face, the demon was new too.

The angel had short red hair, big blue eyes, and pink cheeks with a whole constellation of freckles on them. The demon had a square face and a long dark braid tied around her head. At the end of the braid, something that resembled a scorpion’s tail. And both of them were terrified.

“We come bringing a message from Heaven.” Began the angel, slightly shaking.

“And from Hell.” Added the demon, two steps behind the angel, shoulders up to her ears in a defensive stance.

_Expendables,_ Aziraphale realized. Low-ranked enough to be sent to talk to the rogue angel and demon Hell and Heaven feared. He felt a twinge of compassion for them. Then again, they probably would have stabbed him in the chest had they thought it’d get them a promotion. Aziraphale had known enough angels in his time, and the demons, broadly speaking, weren’t any better. Rather – it was not being an angel or a demon that made a difference, but the person themselves. He was embarrassed it took him so long to figure out such a simple truth.

“What is the message?” He asked, keeping his voice cold and detached.

“Tonight,” replied the demon, “You’re to come to Heaven’s headquarters.”

“Both of you.” Said the angel, glancing at Crowley.

“What if we don’t come?” Crowley glowered at them as he asked the question, putting himself between the intruders and Aziraphale.

“We’ve been told a demonic fire will engulf all of London.” Replied the angel.

“Killing everyone in its way.” Added the demon, not without some cheer.

They both backed away towards the door as Crowley started shouting at them. “That’s a cheap trick and if they think it will work—”

But they were gone before he could finish the sentence.

Aziraphale let the silence settle before speaking.

“You do know we have to go.”

“No. No no no no no _no._ We don’t have to do anything. We’re free, blast it all. We’re free now.”

“Crowley—”

“I won’t hear it! We’re not going! You know it’s a trap, you can tell it’s a trap. Can’t you?”

“I—yes, of course, I assume it is.”

“So why go? Who cares if they burn down the whole city? We’ll go somewhere else. France. You like France, right? You love the food. We’ll get a house by the seaside and—”

“Crowley.”

“No.”

“_Crowley_.”

“Absolutely no, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, I’m going.”

That stopped Crowley in his tracks. His shoulders slumped.

“No. I’m not letting you do that.”

“You can’t stop me, Crowley. I’m not going to let everyone die.”

“You—why? Who cares about everyone?”

“I _do_, of course. That’s why I’m going. And maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. Maybe they just want to talk.”

Crowley stuttered, making no sense, before figuring out what to say. “Oh, sure, of course, maybe they will have tea and biscuits waiting for us. We’ll all sit down for a nice family chat with the _archangel fucking Gabriel_.” He was so upset he began walking up and down, bumping into a table as he went. “That’s why they’re demanding we go up there, where they’ll have all the power and we’ll be outnumbered. To ask if we’ve seen anything nice on the telly lately.”

Crowley was right. Aziraphale knew Crowley was right. But still. How many people lived in London? Millions. It was a difficult decision, but an obvious one.

“I’m going. I won’t change my mind.”

Crowley threw up his hands in frustration, and Aziraphale was quite sure he would have grabbed him by the shoulders to shake him, if he didn’t love him so much.

“I’m coming too, then!” He shouted.

“You don’t have t—”

“_Of course_ I have to, you dim-witted angel.” He came very close and pointed his finger at him. “If they so much as twist a single feather on your wing—” Crowley seemed to hear himself just then, and pulled back. “I’m coming, s’what I mean.” And he sank, defeated, into the armchair.

Aziraphale gave him a full hour to cool off before approaching him again.

“It will be fine. We’ve done it once, we’ll do it again.”

Crowley didn’t look up from his phone, eyes inscrutable behind his dark glasses. Aziraphale sometimes was under the impression the demon could choose to make his glasses more or less transparent to suit his mood. In that moment, they were black like the darkest pits of Hell.

Aziraphale dragged a chair next to Crowley and sat down. He got the book he had started the previous day and settled down, waiting for time to pass. Soon, it would be night.

* * *

They had never taken the escalator to Heaven’s headquarters together before, for all that Crowley had seen Aziraphale ascending dozens of times. And still, Crowley insisted he’d go first. He was clearly expecting an ambush, and an ambush was exactly what they got.

As soon as they stepped into the suffocating open space, ropes materialized around their feet and wrists. Crowley tumbled to the ground, Aziraphale managed to keep his balance just because he’d been standing still.

“Aziraphale!” Said a familiar, cheerful voice that still made Aziraphale’s stomach clench. He turned to Gabriel, who was smiling wide at him, as always. As he did the day he tried to kill him. He did not drop the grin as he continued. “Traitor. How nice to see you.” He was flanked by Uriel, Michael and Sandalphon, as well as two demons he didn’t recognize. Of course, Hell wouldn’t send anyone important in Heaven’s headquarters. A sign, maybe – that the two factions still did not trust one another.

“Can’t say the same.” Aziraphale retorted in a clipped voice.

“You bastard.” Crowley added for good measure, from the floor he was lying on.

Gabriel crouched, grinning at the demon. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. We’ll get to you soon enough.” The way he said it made a cold shiver of fear run down Aziraphale’s spine. Crowley uselessly bared his teeth at the archangel.

“So,” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “There’s something I really want to share with you, Aziraphale. See, we’ve been thinking. Oh, we’ve been thinking long and hard about what went wrong during your execution.”

“The fact that I didn’t deserve to be executed, possibly?”

“So you talk back now. That’s new. That’s fine, I can deal with it.” He put his hands behind his back as he paced in front of them, speaking. “And one conclusion we came to, was that it was in fact very foolish of us to separate you two. Oh yes. Not a mistake on our part, mind you – how could we imagine you two had spent six thousand years sending false reports and having fun behind our backs? Inconceivable.”

“Ineffable.” Corrected Crowley with a smirk. Aziraphale saw Gabriel’s leg tensing and knew he would kick the demon in the face a split second before the archangel did just so. Crowley winced in pain, and Aziraphale felt blind rage cursing through his veins. He strained against his restraints, unable to free himself.

“You’re going to keep quiet now, snake.” Gabriel hissed at him. Then, he schooled his face back into a pleasantly content expression. “As I was saying. Since you two were working together, we came to the obvious conclusion. You were protecting one another with some sort of miracle when we tried to execute you, Aziraphale.” He nodded towards Crowley, who took the opportunity to spit blood at Gabriel’s shoes. “And when they tried to eliminate him. Pity you both are still here.”

He motioned forward one of the demons. At the same time, Uriel came closer to Aziraphale, grabbed the rope that tied his wrists. She pulled down hard, making him fall to his knees. The unnamed demon formed a ball of Hellfire in his hands.

“This time, there will be no mistakes.” Gabriel wasn’t pretending to smile anymore. “We’re going to burn you right in front of him, and then we’ll eliminate him too.”

Crowley was immediately up on his knees, throwing himself between Aziraphale and the demon. Aziraphale was alarmed by a multitude of things in that moment, but one of those was definitely the thick wave of _love_ coming from Crowley in his direction. Nothing new – for him, at least. But the other angels…

“_Oh_.” Exclaimed Sandalphon, disgust on his face. “That’s what I smelled in the bookshop.”

All of them looked appalled. The demons, on the other end, glanced around, uncomprehending.

Gabriel appeared to be about to throw up. “Control yourself, snake. Keep your lustful thoughts to yourself.”

_Lust? This isn’t lust_, Aziraphale wanted to say. Angels don’t sense lust. What they sense is—

“What? What are you talking about?” Crowley asked, completely clueless.

“Oh, your best friend here didn’t tell you?” Gabriel’s smile was back, and wider than before. He glanced in Aziraphale’s direction. He lowered his voice to a loud whisper, pretending to be telling Crowley a secret. “Angels can sense this. You know, this whole thing you have going on. The feelings you have for your _friend_ over there.”

Aziraphale had kept his aura wrapped tight inside the confines of his body, but when Crowley turned to look back at him, dumbfounded and so visibly hurt it was painful to see, he slipped. It flew out of him, soft and bright and firm.

“Oh Lord.” Pleaded Michael. “Oh, good Lord.”

“And isn’t that just _grand_?” Commented Gabriel, mellifluously. He took a few steps back, staring at them with his nose scrunched in repulsion. “He loves you back. Pathetic.”

Crowley’s expression softened as Aziraphale’s face fell. He had wanted to so much to be cool and in control in the face of Heaven, for once. He’d failed once again.

Gabriel apparently needed a moment to pull himself together, because he stared out the window for a second before pacing back to them. “Not to worry. We’ll put an end to this… this _aberration._ Right now.”

He stood before them, alone, with the confidence of a whole firing squad. “You.” He gestured to the demon carrying Hellfire in his hand. “Fire, now.”

Aziraphale felt a strange sense of peace settling over him. He was a fool. The biggest fool to ever exist. Spilling joy all over the place for the little things human made or discovered. Keeping the most important love he had held closely inside his chest, where it was safe, and couldn’t hurt anyone, and couldn’t hurt him. Or, it could, he supposed – those feelings could wear him down, as they had been doing, and make him more insecure, more anxious, more lonely. But that dull ache was better than knowing for sure, wasn’t it? Speaking out loud and being rejected. Worse, being welcomed, given a taste, and then found unworthy, cast aside.

He was a fool. He should have risked it. The reward would have been worth the risk. Crowley would have been worth it.

And now they were out of time.

He bowed his head, ready for the fire to burn him.

The Hellfire exploded out of the demon’s hand, passed right through Crowley without burning a hair off his head, reached Aziraphale.

He blinked. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t warm, even. It tingled on his skin, a feeling similar to being cold. It didn’t hurt. He looked down at his knees, expecting to see himself disappear, but didn’t. What he saw instead, was the fire engulfing him, leaving him untouched.

He looked up and saw his surprise reflected on Crowley’s face. The relief. The stunned realization Aziraphale was still there, and the fire was not harming him at all.

When it eventually stopped, everybody looked at Gabriel, who was at a loss for words. “This…. this isn’t possible.”

The fire had burned down the heavenly ropes keeping them tied, and as soon as Crowley realized, he turned to the archangel, ready to pounce. Aziraphale hurried to him, holding him back. Not because of Gabriel, oh no – he deserved to have his face beaten black and blue for once in his smug existence – but he didn’t want Crowley to end up even more wounded than he already was.

“The water, quick!” Shouted Gabriel in a panic, and Michael turned around and grabbed a glass vase with both hands. From the vase sprouted a strong stream of water, as it would have from a firefighter’s hose, and it hit both Crowley and Aziraphale, sending them sprawling on the ground.

“I am _tired _of this happening to me!” Screamed Crowley. He was so angry at the jet of water he did not immediately realise he hadn’t been destroyed. Then he did, and immediately turned to give Gabriel a malicious smile. He cleaned the blood off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, extending a hand for Aziraphale to take.

Once both of them were on their feet and side by side, he tried to advance towards Gabriel, Aziraphale still tugging at his arm.

“Crowley, let’s go, there’s no way this will end up well.”

“No, let’s stay. I have a few matters to settle.”

Gabriel and the other angels, even the demons, were visibly terrified at this point. “Swords!” Shouted the archangel. “Get your swords!”

“Crowley, we have to go. _Now_.”

Before they had the chance to jump at one another’s throats, a blinding light opened up from the ceiling, making all of them freeze as they were.

The Metatron appeared before their eyes, his voice imperative as usual.

_“The Almighty commands you to stop immediately.”_

The angels let go of their swords and dropped to one knee – all except Aziraphale. The two unknown demons scuttled away as quickly as possible. Crowley stared, transfixed.

“_Gabriel. You are ordered to leave this matter alone.”_

Gabriel recoiled. “I—”

“_Dare you disobey a direct order from God, Gabriel?”_

He bowed his head. “Of course not.”

_“Good.”_

Since the Metatron had said what he had come to say, the light began to disappear. No one moved, except Crowley, who ran right towards it.

“Wait!” The Metatron didn’t listen and continued pulling back. Crowley put his arms up and started to _pull_. He shouted through gritted teeth. “You can’t go! You have to answer—”

For a moment, Aziraphale really believed Crowley would pop the Metatron from the sky. Maybe God herself. Force them into this plane of existence; finally force them to answer some questions.

It didn’t happen. What happened was that Crowley tugged with all the strength he had in his body, then collapsed to the ground, already unconscious.

Aziraphale ran to him immediately. “Crowley!” He called, but there was no answer.

The angels pulled back, not daring interfering again. None of them bothered hiding the disgust on their face as they watched Aziraphale cradle the demon in his arms. And Aziraphale didn’t bother hiding how he felt about Crowley to them, not even one drop of it. _Let them stare. Let them stare until their eyes fall out._

In six thousand years, he had never lifted Crowley off the ground. When he wrapped an arm under his knees and the other behind his back, he found out he was more than strong enough. He’d been a soldier, once upon a time, and though it was something he wished to forget, in that moment he was thankful the muscles he hadn’t used in so many years came to his rescue.

He took the elevator down, then hailed a cab home.

He left Gabriel and the others behind him and did not turn back once.


	2. Gravity

It’s been three days. He hasn’t eaten, and he hasn’t slept. He hasn’t opened a single novel. He’s just been there, waiting for Crowley to wake up. He’s taken off his broken sunglasses and folded them on the nightstand. He’s brushed his fiery red hair away from his forehead with gentle fingers. He’s tucked him into bed several times, although the demon has never moved an inch. Most of all, he’s been thinking.

And he’s been praying. Not to God, not really – he’s quite done with that, for all the good it did him. He’s been praying for Crowley to wake up and call his name. Tell him he’s an idiot for worrying over him, that he’s strong and of course he will get through this. Maybe wake up and have a proper fight, one where Crowley asks why the hell he knew about his feelings and said nothing. Or why Aziraphale never said a word about his own feelings for the demon.

Aziraphale is sure that even if Crowley woke up a hundred years from now, he still wouldn’t have the words to explain how difficult it was for him. How he felt their attachment growing stronger and stronger and how it terrified him. How, the more he cared about Crowley, the more the demon was in danger. And the more he was in danger, the more he cared, and really it was a downward spiral with no end.

He ended up loving him, and being in love with him, and did and said stupid things he now regrets, and didn’t do and say many important things. If Crowley never wakes up, he’ll be living in his very own personal version of Hell, the one where he’s alone with all his regrets.

The clock ticks midnight and he reaches for Crowley’s hand. Unexpectedly, he finds it burning.

If he has never experienced panic before, _blind_ panic catches him completely unprepared. He stands up, his chair falls to the floor, and he almost trips over it. He cups Crowley’s face in his hand and he’s hot, so very hot, too hot. He presses his lips to his forehead, scorching hot.

Oh no. Oh no no _no_. What should he do? What is he supposed to do? Bring down his temperature, like he would with a human? But what if the holy water did hurt him, after all? What if he makes it worse? What if—

Not knowing where to turn, he decides he has to get his temperature down. He rushes to the bathroom and starts filling the tub. He miracles ice in it, but he’s so panicked it comes out in shards. He dissolves it, tries again. This time it’s cubes, spheres, some are ridiculously shaped as fruit. Whatever, it will have to do.

He gets back to Crowley, hoists him up, brings him to the bathroom, and unceremoniously drops him in the tub. He splashes icy water all around and falls to his knees.

“_What the_—”

Crowley chooses that moment to come back to. Well, not quite _chooses_, more like he’s dragged out of his sleep-like state by the ice smouldering against his burning skin.

And then he opens his eyes and finds out several things. He’s fully dresses in a tub. The tub is filled with ice-cold water. The water actually has ice in it. Ice cubes, ice spheres, and something else – a chunk of ice shaped like an apple cheekily bobbles an inch from his nose. And there’s Aziraphale, clothes and hair damp all over, who looks like he’s on the verge on tears. Like Crowley has never, ever seen him before.

“Hey… what’s up?”

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale leans forward, over the edge of the tub, hugging him with enough strength to take his breath away. “I thought you—I was so scared you…”

Crowley pats him on the back with a shaky hand. “M’fine, it’s fine. I just… overextended myself, I guess.”

Aziraphale pulls back, and his eyes are most definitely wet. “I was worried sick!”

Crowley tries a weak smile. “I’m… sorry?”

Aziraphale lower lip _wobbles_. He feels it happening on his face but is unable to stop it. He sucks in both lips, trying to regain control of his face. Crowley lifts his eyebrows at him, trying to figure out what to say next.

“You know how it is, when you use up too much. Has this never happened to you?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. No, he’s most definitely never made himself faint from trying to perform too big a miracle. Crowley smiles fondly at that.

“Spoiled angel.”

“You… you dumb demon.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he breathes in, trying to steady himself. “Let’s get you out of here.”

So, this is a tad awkward. Because Aziraphale’s clothes are wet from all the splashing and hugging, and Crowley is dripping, and they both need to change. And there’s—well. What Gabriel said. Hanging in the air. That conversation has been put on hold, but they’ll have to get to it. Sooner rather than later. Aziraphale quickly sneaks a hand on Crowley’s forehead, one last time, just to be sure he’s back to a normal temperature.

He is, but the gesture that’s become so commonplace for Aziraphale is very much not so for Crowley, who almost whips back, then goes very still, golden eyes open wide, unprotected by his usual glasses. Aziraphale could swear the longer he leaves his hand there, the warmer the skin gets under his touch.

“Ah, hm. You seem fine now. I’ll… get you a change of clothes.”

And with that, he scampers out of the bathroom.

He changes into a clean pair of pants and a simple white shirt. He adds a tartan bow tie, for good measure. Then he wonders what in the world he could offer Crowley to change into.

Well, it’s past midnight. He supposes pyjamas will be fine. He doesn’t really have anything else Crowley would accept to wear. It’s only as he stands outside the bathroom door, with the blue and white striped pyjamas draped over an arm and a hand raised to knock, that he realizes Crowley can miracle himself anything he wants. He turns to walk away when the door opens a crack. An inquisitive yellow eye peeks out.

“Angel?”

“Ah, yes, it’s me.” What a dumb thing to say, of course it’s him, who else could it be? “I mean, I found you something. But it’s not your style.”

Crowley reaches out a naked arm, and Aziraphale definitely gets a glimpse of a bare hip through the open door. He hands over the pyjamas.

A minute later, Crowley comes out dressed. The button-up shirt is very loose on him, showing a lot of chest. The pants are held up, barely, by the string around the waist, tied tighter than it’s ever been on Aziraphale. “This will do, for now. I’ve finished up all my power for a few days.”

“Oh. Will you stay here, then? So I can…” _Take care of you?_ “Lend a hand, if needed.”

Crowley flashes him a small smile. “Yes. You do owe me, after all.”

“I…” Well. “I really didn’t think it was going to get so dreadful, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugs. “At least we’re free now, right?”

Aziraphale manages to smile, at last. The relief he feels, seeing his friend alive and well, is immense. “I don’t understand many of the things that happened, but this I do. We are free. For good.”

That night, they open a bottle of wine and sit on the floor of the bookshop, laughing at nothings and basking in the warmth of the other’s company. Just like old times, except there’s suddenly something new in the air.

After all, even the Earth shifts, all the time, little by little, though we only notice the earthquakes.

* * *

A week and a few pairs of pyjamas later, Aziraphale knocks on the door of his own bedroom. He’s given the room over to Crowley. He doesn’t care much about sleeping, anyway. He walks in to find the demon dressed in Crowley’s typical clothes, black and tight all over. Crowley fires off a little miracle to get his hair just how he likes it, and Aziraphale understands he’s completely recovered now.

“Need to go. Check on my plants.” Crowley hurries down the stairs, and Aziraphale is not sure why he feels disappointed. He liked the idea of having Crowley always there, he’d guess. But what is he going to do? Keep the demon trapped in his flat until the next end of times? As he’s trying to shake off this frustrated, empty feeling, Crowley shouts at him, “Pick you up at eight!”

And just like that, Aziraphale is smiling again.

* * *

That evening, Crowley doesn’t tell him where he’s taking them.

“There’s going to be food, and it’s going to be up to your precious standards.” Is all he says.

As Crowley drives, the Bentley blasts a ballad. There are drums and guitars and violins.

Aziraphale realizes in that moment he’s never really _listened_ to the music that plays when he’s in the car with Crowley. He’s generally too focused on trying to relax and willing the Bentley not to crash into anything. He keeps his eyes on the road much more than Crowley does, and often it’s him warning the demon that something or someone is in the way.

So he’s not sure if it’s a blip or a common occurrence for the music to be so sickeningly romantic.

He’s thinking this over when Crowley parks the car. Well – _parking_ would be too generous a descriptor, what he does is stopping at the side of the road, two tires over a sidewalk.

Aziraphale looks interrogatively at him, this is not a restaurant he’s been at before. And he’s been in a _lot _of restaurants. Suffice to say that if a place is any good, he knows about it. With endless time and money on his hands, as well as a disposition for all things delectable, he cultivates his favourite hobbies with a consistent passion.

He follows Crowley inside and spots a familiar face. The owner comes and welcomes him like an old friend. _Oh_, he gets it now. There was this small polish place, a little hole in the wall of a restaurant, not far from his bookshop, and he loved it. When it closed down, there was talk of a relocation, but no definite plans had been made. He’d lost touch, and he was a little sad about it.

He turns to Crowley with a big, bright smile on his face, and Crowley does that thing with his face where it’s not quite a grin, but a small twitch of the corners of his mouth, and he doesn’t manage not to look thoroughly pleased with himself despite his best efforts.

The food is delicious, of course, and Aziraphale is not sure whether it’s the champagne or the excitement laced with fear bubbling in his chest. This is it. This is a special night. Because there is no way Crowley didn’t mean for this to be an actual _date_. Not after what they heard about each other straight from Gabriel’s big stupid mouth.

When they finish and get back into the car, Crowley doesn’t drive back to the bookshop. Aziraphale asks where they’re going, but he doesn’t get an answer this time either. “You’ll see.”

The Bentley swiftly climbs up a hill, and the buildings slowly give way to trees, the streetlights to the dark sky over their heads. When Crowley stops the car and they get out, Aziraphale breathes in the smell of the woods, of the earth, of the cool night air. It settles his nerves a little bit. It’s not a _bad_ kind of nervous, it’s just awareness. There’s a fork in the road, and they’re getting there now. They’ve been crawling towards it at a snail’s pace for six thousand years.

Crowley leads them to the only building on the hill, and Aziraphale is a bit surprised when he sees what it is. “The observatory.” He comments. Crowley replies with a non-committal grunt and a shrug of his shoulders. Quite _miraculously_, no one is there, it’s just the two of them. Aziraphale suspects some demonic intervention. Why the observatory, though? He knows Crowley has a keen passion for stars and astronomy, but what does that have to do with anything, now?

Inside it’s cool, dark, and silent. Crowley moves through it as if he’s been there before. Many times, in fact. He leads them to a big room that’s almost empty except for a big telescope. He doesn’t check whether it’s in place before gesturing for Aziraphale to look through it. He blinks in surprise, but does as he’s being silently asked to. He crouches a bit and peers into it.

Crowley moves behind him. “Do you see it?”

Aziraphale is distracted for a moment, because Crowley is doing that other thing of his – where he keeps his voice perfectly under control, like he doesn’t even care, like he’s unaffected and calm. But Aziraphale has had many, many years to pick up on it – to pick up on the slight, unnatural strain to it, signalling the demon is actually nervous. Possibly way more nervous than he is.

What does he have in mind?

He won’t ask out loud. They don’t really talk about the important stuff, the two of them. It’s a delicate dance around each other. So often, under pressure, they’ve bumped into one another with the best intentions, stumbled, said things they didn’t mean, hurt each other’s feelings as a result. He’ll be careful now – with his words, with his actions. Because their dance is about to morph into something else, and he needs to be as deliberate and meticulous as a glassblower is.

He lets out a breath, willing this to be easy. It was hard to admit it, but it was incredibly easy to become friends right away. Inevitable, really. He would like, this time, for this transition to be just as easy. And whatever they’ll be by the end of the night, he won’t hide it. There’s finally no one to hide it from.

Crowley is waiting for a reply, so he focuses on the night sky.

“I see…” He closes one eye, “Something. Ah, a star?”

Crowley shakes his head behind him. “Look better.”

Aziraphale does. “Oh. Is it… are there two of them? There’s a smaller one right behind the other, isn’t there?”

“Right.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale pulls back, glancing at the demon.

A beat. “Alpha Centauri.”

“Oh. Really?” He looks back into the telescope, smiling. “I had never seen it before. We weren’t involved in the creation process.” He doesn’t see the face Crowley makes in the dark behind him. “So this is the famous Alpha Centauri you wanted to go to. And it’s two stars.”

“It’s a star system, actually. But generally you can only see the two.” He keeps talking like he’s reading from a book. “Those two are a binary star. That’s two separate stars that share a barycentre and orbit around it. One single gravitational unit.”

Aziraphale feels a tug in his chest. Crowley’s tone is detached, matter-of-factly, and it does not fool him one bit. He turns back slowly, with the same grace he’s used throughout history not to scare particularly spooky horses.

“Crowley, that’s… that’s beautiful.”

Crowley shrugs. “I guess.”

Aziraphale worries at the hem of his jacket. “Why did you want me to see this?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Aziraphale tries his best to sound encouraging. “Go on, then.”

“Do you remember, in the Garden… how I said that God could have put the tree on the moon, if She didn’t want the humans to eat the apple?” Aziraphale nods. “How I said that it was weird that She’d put the one thing they weren’t allowed to have right in front of them?”

Crowley takes a step forward and Aziraphale suppresses the urge to bolt. No. Not anymore. He wants to be here. He’s so tired of running from his feelings.

Crowley, on his part, does not seem to be doing any better. The lines around his eyes, where the glasses don’t reach, are tense. His hands have been shoved into the tiny pockets of his jeans, as much as they can fit in there. In the semi-darkness of the room, Aziraphale can still tell he’s barely remembering to breathe.

“Yes, I remember the whole apple business.” Aziraphale’s voice has dropped to a low murmur. “What about it?”

“I’d like to take my bite now.”

He leans in, and there’s a few, long seconds where neither of them moves. Crowley’s eyes, behind his glasses, dart all over Aziraphale’s face, seeking – anything. A sign. Rejection. Approval. Doubt. But the angel is not giving him any of that. Aziraphale has gone completely still and blank. That is, until he closes his eyes, smiles, and closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to Crowley’s.

As humans do.

* * *

When they come out of the observatory, Crowley is red in the face all the way to his ears. Aziraphale is beaming. They sit in the car and Aziraphale puts a hand on the demon’s knee. Crowley almost drives them into a tree.

He’s silent all the way to the bookshop, despite Aziraphale’s several attempts at starting a conversation. When they get there, the angel is starting to get a little worried. Could he possibly have misunderstood?

But then, as he says goodnight and is about to get out of the car, Crowley stops him. He swallows, takes off his glasses, and puts a hesitant hand on Aziraphale’s arm. His half-closed yellow eyes are vaguely focused on the angel’s lips. He bumps their noses together, letting out a hot breath against his mouth. It takes him a few more seconds to get the courage to kiss him again. And then again. And then once more, for good measure.

In the end, it actually takes Aziraphale about half an hour to get out of the car. When he does, his lips are swollen and happy. Crowley’s mouth has been kissed many, many times, as well as his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose (although that got Aziraphale a little hiss). And then he managed to actually say goodnight, with the last kiss of the day.

There will have to be many more, though – half an hour can’t sate millennia of want.


	3. Slow

They don’t make the conscious decision to take it slow. It happens naturally.

Heaven doesn't want to know about sex. It's not 'their thing'. It's something a bit dirty humans do, like eating. Angels don't need to have sex, and the one time the topic came up the problem was solved by immaculate conception (Gabriel dealt with that one, of course).

Which doesn't mean that angels _can't_ have sex. In fact, one particular angel had given the matter some thought, and decided very quickly he would not get involved with any human in that way. The vast majority of mortals are too clueless, almost childlike, compared to an eternal being such as himself. Besides, he could alter reality a little too easily when he really wanted something, and the idea that he could interfere with a human's free will in that particular field gave him the creeps.

Therefore, what he knows about sex he has learned alone. Aided, sometimes, or maybe actually _most_ times, by an evanescent fantasy in tight black pants and dark glasses.

Not that he would admit to this little detail. Not even under torture.

Hell, on the other hand, has a vague understanding of how sex works.

It is, for sure, a very powerful tool to lead mortals astray. Humans, as it turns out, have all sorts of weird hang-ups on the subject. Their bodies are literally made for it, but they're so good at torturing themselves and one another.

Crowley had quickly established it wouldn't be his field of expertise. Too hands on. He likes clever, well thought-out strategies. He never foresees how they'll come back and bite him in the ass, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

Lust isn't really his scene. He's aware he understands it better than most demons, and so it is a bit of a waste, but that's alright. He's not an ambitious employee. He just wants to keep himself in one piece, work as little as possible, enjoy himself where he can.

Not for lack of trying, he's never felt the spark of desire towards any of the transitory humans he's dealt with over the millennia. He might have, but well – that particular spot had already been filled. By the only one he couldn't have.

He's tried very hard, for the sake of his sanity, not to let his mind wander in that direction. And yet, sometimes… racked by guilt, fully aware he’s making things harder for himself, and feeling most definitely like the hugest creep on the planet, he's enjoyed a few rounds of whack-a-mole at the angel's expenses. He’s felt horrible about it, and then doubly so because what the hell, he's a demon, he shouldn't feel guilty about anything. He’s not nice! So what if he wants to bury his face into Aziraphale’s neck, press him into a wall, sneak a hand into his pants and—

And feel guilty again about having this kind of thoughts, and enjoying them quite a bit?

Long story short, he’s spent a long time swinging between guilt, denial, irritation, arousal, and straight back to guilt.

So he won’t start anything. Oh no. He couldn’t stand being told he’s confirming his demonic nature by leading Aziraphale into temptation. If it kills him, he won’t go down that path.

Trouble is, Aziraphale has come to the conclusion that Crowley is just _not interested in him_ in that way. He’s a demon, right? And Aziraphale, maybe without even realizing it, still holds some prejudices about how demons operate. They’re probably quite liberal with their bodies, he assumes. Crowley must have _so much_ experience. He must have lost count of how many humans of all sexes and genders he’s bedded throughout the millennia. He just has that kind of energy about him, doesn’t he?

Things between them don’t change – they still do all the things they did before. Their friendship is solid, maybe more than ever. What’s different is that now there’s a brief press of their lips when they see each other and when they say goodbye. Sometimes, there are random kisses as they talk. Aziraphale gets the urge to kiss him whenever Crowley says something even remotely nice – but also when he doesn’t, so basically all the time. Crowley would like to kiss Aziraphale every single second they spend together, and sometimes can’t hold himself back. Once, Aziraphale kisses him while they wait for their food in a restaurant, in public, and Crowley’s brain shuts down for a full hour after that.

And that’s how the two of them end up spending six whole months in their happy bubble, doing nothing but kiss. It’s important to point out that there are no tongues involved. Everything they do could be broadcasted before the watershed.

Until the moment it couldn’t.

* * *

It’s a day like any other, and they’re getting ice cream in the park. They sit on their usual bench, this time without leaving any space between them. Crowley even has a brave arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. As always, the demon is the first to finish his ice cream – which he only got because Aziraphale insisted it’s a new flavour, and _you have to try it, dearest, it’s meringue, hazelnut and chocolate, it’s one of their best inventions._ He could never quite shake off the habit of swallowing food almost in one bite, so, when he’s done, Crowley is left with nothing to do except look at Aziraphale happily lapping away at his ice cream cone. The angel is blissfully unaware that he’s supplying Crowley with enough inappropriate thoughts that God might just smite them there and then.

At one point, Aziraphale turns to him, blinking. “Oh, here, let me…” He shifts closer, having spotted a bit of ice cream on the corner of Crowley’s mouth. He only intended to kiss it away, really, he thought it’d be rather cute. It doesn’t turn out cute at all, though, because he gets his wires crossed and instead finds himself licking it from his lips. Which, if he’s being honest with himself, is what he actually wanted to do in the first place.

Crowley’s head snaps in his direction so fast his neck almost cracks. And then he’s leaning towards him, chasing his tongue. Aziraphale drops his ice cream to the ground as they share a very different kind of kiss, one where he’s parting his lips and sinking his fingers into Crowley’s hair, pulling him closer, and _oh_ _good Lord_, this feels just wonderful, doesn’t it? Crowley started it, but Aziraphale doesn’t let it end. Oxygen is overrated. He tugs the demon over him until they’re almost lying on the bench, hands lost somewhere on each other’s clothes.

They don’t even hear the lady pushing a stroller who walks by them, clearing her throat loudly. Can’t these middle-aged men behave a little? She can’t know, of course, that the men she’s side-eying are a lot older than she thinks, and a lot less experienced than she assumes. They aren’t even men to begin with.

Thankfully, the rest of the world is lost to them. There’s just the two of them, this new kind of kiss, their tongues pressing against and over each other soft and hot, lips seeking and finding, small whimpers no one else could hear. Little treasured secrets, just for the two of them.

When they break apart, both of them are panting hard.

“Bookshop?” Aziraphale asks, breathless.

Crowley replies with a grunt, but then also adds, “I’m going to need a moment.”

Because Aziraphale might be wearing his usual, loose, old pants, but Crowley’s jeans leave nothing to the imagination. So, for a few minutes, he has to sit there, legs crossed, and think of ducks and kittens.

* * *

There are many, many ways to kiss.

Sometimes Crowley shifts close, hesitates, brushes their lips together, just a touch, and Aziraphale responds with his usual hunger, conquering his mouth like a true warrior of the Lord, cupping his face in his hands and pressing his chest to the demon’s as he seeks out Crowley’s tongue with his own.

Sometimes they have to break their kisses to breathe, staring at each other with wonder and reverence in their eyes, and it’s almost _too much_, this bond between them. It feels like it could hold up the sky, freeze the underworld, and crush anything in its wake.

Sometimes Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard and deliberately ‘forgets’ to kiss his demon for a few hours. What’s a few hours to eternal beings? And yet Crowley sulks on the bookshop’s couch, playing on his phone. Then Aziraphale sits close to him, wets his lips, an offer – and the demon falls for it every single time, almost losing his balance as he leans in for his kiss. Aziraphale smiles against his lips. In a sense, the intensity of his feelings hurt. But oh, it’s such a sweet pain.

One time Crowley makes a funny noise with his mouth while they kiss, something that sounds a bit like a raspberry, and Aziraphale giggles, and Crowley feels affronted but doesn’t stop kissing him, kisses him harder, and Aziraphale laughs and breaks away, because it’s funny, because he’s lovely, because oh God, oh dear God, he loves him so much his heart is going to burst.

There’s good morning kisses, and goodnight kisses, and good afternoon kisses, and _whatever it’s some irrelevant time of the day I just wanted a kiss_ kisses.

Sometimes they squabble, and Crowley has found out he can come up behind the angel and leave a quick kiss on his temple, and isn’t that so much better than having to demonstrate he’s sorry in some other, less pleasant way? Sometimes it’s Aziraphale who sits next to him, realizing he’s been a bit of a jerk. He takes the demon’s hand, brings it to his lips, leaves a soft kiss on his lovely knuckles or at the centre of his palm.

And all is forgiven, every time.

* * *

They don’t pay attention to the passing of time. The season changes from summer to fall, and indeed, it’s been almost three months after the ice cream incident. They’ve spent most of this time kissing.

Once again, they’re on Aziraphale’s couch, side by side.

They’re feeling pleasantly warm, because of the other’s presence, the kisses, and a particularly velvety red they’ve been sipping. Aziraphale has Crowley’s chin between forefinger and thumb. He runs his tongue along Crowley’s lips and the demon melts into the couch. Crowley keeps his hands under strict control, as he’s wont to do, on his own legs.

Aziraphale sucks his bottom lip and is rewarded with a small, needy sound that makes him want to eat him up whole, and he’s not even the one who was a snake.

Crowley has become very good at keeping himself in check, but Aziraphale sees the fingers twitch, and definitely notices what’s going on below his belt – which is hard to miss, really. He feels the quickening of Crowley’s pulse under his fingers when he rests a hand on his neck. The demon’s mouth opens easily, selflessly for him, follows his lead every step of the way. He slides a hand over Crowley’s thigh, and that earns him another moan from the demon, vibrating against his tongue.

That’s too much. He can’t think straight anymore.

“Good God, Crowley, just come here.” His hands close into fists around the material of Crowley’s jacket, pulling, and the demon is visibly surprised but complies without a moment’s hesitation. Aziraphale lets go of his jacket to reach up and take off his glasses. Then he grabs him at the hips, guides him until he’s straddling him. Those pants of his really are skin tight, so when his palms slide to his back he can feel every single inch of skin underneath. He sinks his fingers into his ass.

Crowley hisses – actually _hisses_, and arches his spine. He grips the back of the couch until his knuckles turn white. Aziraphale’s strong hands pull him closer and closer still, and when their bodies finally collide, they both gasp.

“Angel…” Crowley’s eyes are half-lidded as, despite himself, he grinds against Aziraphale, feeling the angel’s erection against his own through the fabric of their pants. He rolls his hips again, tries to begin a sentence a few times and fails.

“What?” Aziraphale replies, breathless, gripping his ass now.

Crowley shakes his head. He can’t explain, not now, maybe not ever. “_Warm_.”

Aziraphale nods absently, yes, sure, he supposes he’s warm, both of them are warm, actually. Warm and hard and he’s never tried anything like this before, ever. Crowley must have, or at least he assumes so, but the way he’s writhing over him plants the seed of doubt.

It’s Crowley that stops all of a sudden, gasping for breath against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We have to stop.”

“Do we really?” The angel whines. “Why?”

“Because.”

Aziraphale looks around him, as if he could find the answer written on the wall. Then he purrs at Crowley, “But I don’t want to stop.”

“Yes, well…” Crowley wrestles with his thoughts for a little bit, then finally manages to speak. “I’m about to. In my pants. We have to stop.”

“Oh. _Oh._” Aziraphale is utterly fascinated with this revelation. Really? He can do _that_ to his demon? Just like this? He drags him closer again. “Oh, please, please _do_.”

“Angel—!” Aziraphale keeps a hand on his ass while his free arm wraps tightly around Crowley’s waist, pulling him down hard and fast against him. He drinks the sounds Crowley makes right out of his mouth, delighted and proud. “Ah, _fuck.._.”

Crowley’s body goes taut against his, hips rocking into him, and then he feels it – the warmth, the slight dampness seeping through the fabric. Crowley is so beautiful, he can hardly stand it. With his eyes tightly shut, his lips parted in ecstasy, he would be the envy of any painter, of any sculptor.

In a few seconds, the demon is curling up over him, hiding his face into the back of the couch.

“I’m sor—” He tries to say, but Aziraphale cuts him off with a kiss. Oh no, the angel won’t have any that. Crowley can’t be sorry. What they’ve done is right, and good, and he wants to do it another million times. For a second, the fear he won’t measure up is overridden by the need to show his demon just how much he wants him, and he grabs Crowley’s hand and presses it firmly against his own throbbing cock.

After a first moment of shock, Crowley begins to rub. He doesn’t dare undoing Aziraphale’s pants, but maybe there’s no need after all, because even through the layers of fabric he can feel his warmth and thickness. He cups his hand around it, and Aziraphale’s breath quickens again. The angel can tell Crowley’s eyes are burning right through him but he can deal with that, let him see – let him see what he does to him, be half as proud as Aziraphale himself feels.

His hips buck up against Crowley’s hand, and the demon’s body is still all over him, and he sinks his fingers into the harsh material of his jacket, and the smell of his skin is overpowering, and his lips are sweet and hot and he claims them for himself over and over and over until he spills inside his pants.

Between bathed breaths, the silence stretches in the air until their hearts calm down. Crowley peers at him, without saying a word. Aziraphale understands he’s waiting for him to speak first. So he smiles and kisses him once more.

“Hmm. That was truly wonderful. You are... extraordinary.”

Crowley reacts to his voice tensing up like a violin string, then melting down into him.

Oh Lord, Aziraphale wants to shower him in praise as long as he has a voice.

* * *

Crowley has gained a bed in the last few months. He has one in his apartment, and now he has Aziraphale’s, in the flat above the bookshop. It’s been largely unused until Crowley came around. Aziraphale can’t imagine that, even though the bed himself doesn’t smell like him at all, the bedroom does. And that’s the main reason Crowley likes it so much.

So, sometimes, when it’s late, and he doesn’t feel like going home, the demon slinks upstairs and nods off.

It’s one of those nights. He leaves a quick peck on Aziraphale’s cheek before going to bed. At this point, he has his own pyjamas upstairs, black silk, much more his style.

It’s been maybe half an hour when Aziraphale follows him upstairs. He opens the door of the bedroom just a crack, casting yellow light in the darkness of the room. Crowley looks like he was just about to fall asleep, warm and comfortable under the covers.

“Hey.” He calls softly at the angel hesitating by the door.

Aziraphale comes in, closes the door behind him, and turns on the light on the bedside table. He sits on the bed, looking down at Crowley. For no discernible reason, his heart thrums in his ears.

He runs the back of his hand on the demon’s cheek. Crowley closes his eyes with a content hum.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Says Aziraphale, voice quiet like a confession.

Bearing the force of an angel’s love, all-encompassing and intense as it is, is no small feat. And it’s a sharp change – going from being nobody to anyone, to having one friend, to feeling like the most precious soul in the whole universe, just because of the way Aziraphale looks at him.

But Crowley has always had broad shoulders, and a kind of hunger very different from the angel’s. He can take and house all his love, there is plenty of room inside him.

He squeezes his hand, _I’m here_.

“You must think I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am.” Aziraphale leans down for a kiss, and it’s different from any other they’ve shared. They have written a whole thesaurus on the subject of kisses by this point, and they need to add one more entry for this tender, passionate kiss that presses Crowley into the pillow as much as it beckons him forward, into the angel’s arms. It feels like love, desire, praise and reverence, all in one single kiss. When they part, the angel asks, “Would you allow me to take off your clothes?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes painfully devoid of glasses. But he’s quick to cast the sheets aside.

“Yes.” He swallows. Aziraphale is expecting him to try and put up his cool boy act, even now, but Crowley doesn’t. Can’t, maybe. He’s completely earnest as he says, “Anything you want, angel. It’s always yes.”

Aziraphale reaches out and starts undoing his shirt slowly, from the neck down. With every inch of skin bared, Crowley shivers a little more under his touch. When the shirt is completely unbuttoned, Crowley lifts up just enough to allow Aziraphale to slide it off his shoulders.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale hears himself whisper, and Crowley’s face tenses and blush.

Aziraphale hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pyjamas bottom and underwear, and slowly pulls down, never breaking eye contact with him. Crowley shifts, allowing all of his clothing to be taken away until it pools around his ankles. He stomps it out of the way.

When Aziraphale looks at him all over, Crowley flinches. The adoration in the angel’s eyes burns.

“The most beautiful—”

“Come on,” Crowley interrupts, pressing his cheek into a shoulder, averting his gaze. “I’m not all that.”

“Crowley. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Aziraphale sounds hurt, even though he _has_ lied to him before. But he belonged to Heaven, then. He belongs to no one, now. He’s free to be with Crowley, and to freely speak his mind. “How could I lie to you about this? Aren’t we best friends?”

Crowley finally smiles, even though he sounds a little choked up when he speaks. “We are.”

Aziraphale caresses a strand of spiky red hair away from his forehead. He smiles back. “Allow me to convince you.”

Two fingertips brush against Crowley’s collarbone, then down, over his heart. Aziraphale opens his hand wide and grazes the skin of his chest, moves to explore the smooth skin of his side. It slides up and down a few times, bumps into bone at the hip.

Crowley’s eyes dart from the angel’s hand to his face. His body reacts to the touch leaning into it and pulling away in turns. It’s too much and it’s not enough at the same time, and Aziraphale stares at him in wonder as he shifts under his hand. He can see the traces of desire building up on Crowley’s face, between his legs. Crowley stops him when his hand was about to wrap around him.

“I want to see you too.” Aziraphale hesitates just a moment too long, and Crowley flushes redder. He wasn’t expecting the request, and he’s a little surprised, but, of course, Crowley seems to take it as if he’s asked something shameful. As if he needs to justify his request. “I’ve never done this before.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What haven’t you done?”

“This.” He squeezes the angel’s hand still on his hip. “I’ve only done it by myself.”

Understanding begins to dawn on Aziraphale, slowly and then all at once. “But you’re…”

“What?” Crowley pulls back, quickly, sitting up, knees to his chest. “A _demon_?”

The moment is broken. Aziraphale knows – should have known, when Crowley feels judged or cornered he defaults to fiercely defensive. But he wasn’t trying to hurt him, didn’t mean to.

He decides being honest might be the best strategy here.

“Well… yes. But not only that. You’re so beautiful. You… dearest, you must know the effect you have on people. You turn heads wherever you go. You stand out in any room.” The expression on Crowley’s face begins to soften. “You must have had countless suitors in all these centuries. Surely some of them deserved a chance.”

Crowley gathers his knees to his chest, but he doesn’t look angry anymore. Just small.

“I guess some were, but it didn’t matter. I was spoken for.”

“What do you mean?”

“I, y’know.” He visibly struggles with what to say next. “From the Garden.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. No, he doesn’t know. “From the Garden?”

“I—Christ, this is pathetic. Don’t make me say it, angel.”

“Please, Crowley. I want to know.”

“What do you want to know? That I’m the dumbest sucker to ever walk this planet? You’re so smart, figure it out yourself.”

“Crowley, I don’t understand…” He thinks back of the Garden. Their first encounter. Crowley’s words, reassuring him like a balm on sunburned skin. _You’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing_. Crowley’s smile, so bright and unguarded. Such a rare sight, now that he thinks about it. “Please. I’m not trying to upset you. I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You ruined me. Back then.” In lieu of a pair of dark glasses, Crowley turns his gaze away, resting his temple against the sharp bone of his knee. “And when we talked next. And the following time. And the time after that.”

Aziraphale is not sure whether to touch him. He’d like to caress his head, but maybe he shouldn’t. He settles for running his fingers in what he hopes is a soothing motion on a bare foot. So beautiful, even his foot. He makes a mental note to kiss it, later.

“What are you trying to—”

“Wretched and pathetic. You were supposed to be my enemy, and there I was…” He holds his knees even closer to him. “Pining like an idiot. A complete disaster.”

He turns his gaze to the angel, folding his arms over his knees, the lower half of his face hidden behind his forearms. “Never in six thousand years did I think you felt the same. Right until that asshole said it.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s heart melts inside his chest. “Oh, but of course I felt the same.”

“Could’ve said something, eh?” Crowley replies, quietly.

“But I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t. You’re so fast, so fearless… I’m so sorry, Crowley. I’m not like you. I was terrified.” Aziraphale feels his eyes beginning to sting. “If I showed you I felt the same… Lord knows how many days and nights I spent worried Hell would find out about our arrangement and destroy you. I was trying to protect myself, I don’t deny it, but also… I just couldn’t let anything happen to you. You could have done something dangerous.”

“Of course I would have done something dangerous, you idiot. I would have fought Heaven and Hell for you. I did.”

“So I was right.”

“That’s not the—that’s not the point now.” Crowley pouts and Aziraphale frowns. But then he feels something like laughter bubbling up in his chest, rising to his throat.

Because only two idiots like them could be fighting over how much they love each other.

He scoots closer, reaching out to touch Crowley’s face even if he looks like he could bite. He doesn’t.

“Dearest. We were stolen so much time.” He cups his cheek, and the demon leans into his hand. “You heard it from Gabriel, yes, but you deserve to hear it from me too.”

Crowley looks up at him, golden eyes open wide.

“I don’t know when I started. You were my friend from the beginning, and I tried to think of you as nothing more. I failed, miserably. What was it you said? ‘Pining like an idiot’? A ‘complete disaster’? That was me too, Crowley. That was me too.” He takes Crowley’s hands in his. “And if Gabriel hadn’t said anything, I don’t know how long I would have kept quiet. But please. Please never doubt that I’m in love with you. I have been for the longest time.”

“_Ngk_.” Crowley says, jaw clenched.

Aziraphale giggles at that. “It’s alright. You never have to tell me anything. I can feel it.” He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. “It’s all around me, every moment.”

Crowley uncoils from his spot on the bed, leaning in to kiss him. It starts out tender, but quickly it turns into something else. An open-mouthed kiss, with Aziraphale tilting Crowley’s head back, both hands on his cheeks, exposing his throat, then running a finger down along his pulse. Crowley makes tiny, accidental noises into his mouth, shifting closer and closer.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and puts it on the bowtie around his neck. “I know you hate it. You can take it off, if you’d be so inclined.”

“Damn thing belongs in the eighteenth century anyway.” Mutters Crowley, fingers suddenly shaky as they pull the fabric loose. Aziraphale shrugs off his jacket while the demon unbuttons his waistcoat. When Crowley starts on his shirt, he clears his throat.

“You should know, I don’t… I don’t look like you.”

Maybe because Crowley is so close to finally reaching his skin, his patience is paper thin. “No shit?”

“I mean,” Words. Words are so hard. Crowley struggles with them a lot more than Aziraphale does, but they don’t come easy to the angel either, at times. Times like this one. “I don’t know what you expect. You might not like…”

“Angel, what’s this? I never pegged you to be self-conscious. And besides, you could change your body in any number of ways if you’d like to.”

“Oh, oh no, I like it just as it is.”

Crowley frowns. “I’m lost.”

“Well, I didn’t always look like this, you know? When I first got this body, it was lighter.” He treads cautiously over to his next sentence. “It was a body ready to fight in a war. But I didn’t want to fight in any more wars.” There was only one War in Heaven, the one after which Crowley was cast out.

Thankfully, Crowley does not seem upset, although he becomes very serious. “So you changed it.”

“Ah, a little bit here and there. Got a lot of comments from Gabriel for it, I can tell you.”

“Gabriel’s a wanker.”

“Oh, I don’t think he is, he’d find it too gross.”

Crowley gives him a small smile. “Anyway. I like it. Your body. What you did to it. I’ve always liked it. So… let me?”

Finally, Aziraphale lets out a breath, relaxing his shoulders, and nods.

Crowley’s fingers work on his clothes with the utmost reverence. Aziraphale has thought about this moment for so long, it almost feels surreal, and the months they’ve spent kissing help them now making sense of what is happening without being overwhelmed. Well, without being _too_ overwhelmed, at least.

Aziraphale stands up to allow Crowley to take off his pants, cheeks colouring as the fabric slides off his legs. The angle has him a bit more exposed than he’d thought, but it’d make no sense hiding now. No, he wants Crowley to see all of him.

The expression on the demon’s face is indescribable; it makes him feel like the most gorgeous thing to ever set foot on Earth. Crowley pulls him close and they fall together, on the bed and deeper in love.

* * *

He’s lost his sense of time, his sense of space. He’s lost the awareness he has neighbours beyond the walls of his flat. Back arched against the bed, mouth open, Aziraphale stares at the ceiling, seeing nothing. He hears the sounds he’s making as if they’re coming from someone else’s throat – they have to be, for he’s never, _ever_ made noises such as these.

Then again, he’s never had Crowley’s mouth – or anyone’s – taking residence between his legs. He’s said so, to an incredulous demon. _No one? Ever?_ Aziraphale didn’t get offended like Crowley did. After all, he was an angel, he was not supposed to be sleeping around. But Crowley seemed to take some convincing before believing him. Evidently, he’d thought himself to be the odd one out, suffering alone in silence while Aziraphale received many offers and accepted some. _I wouldn’t think less of you, you know that right?_ He’d said, doubting he was being told the truth. _I’m not one of your lot._

But Aziraphale hadn’t been lying, he really had never tried this before. Crowley had made a _face_, one of his hard to translate expressions, subtle and difficult to read. Maybe he was a little sad for him. Maybe he was also a little happy there had been no one else. Maybe he was a tad worried Aziraphale had been holding out because of some bullshit Heaven had planted into his brain.

Maybe he was all of that.

And then he’d hidden his face, whatever else it had morphed into, into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. The angel, though, didn’t need to see him to know what he felt. Love was radiating intensely off of him, hot and devastating. And determined, now.

It was indeed with determined hands that Crowley had reached out to him, guiding him to lie on his back, and had started exploring his body with fingertips and lips, scouting out all the spots that made him moan, setting his mind to figuring out what worked, what didn’t, the whys and the hows of his corporeal form.

He’d taken inventory of his body’s reactions – touching a nipple was okay, flicking it was better, scratching it was very good, licking it was alright, grazing it with his teeth got him the most delicious sound. He’d figured out quickly that Aziraphale liked it him to be a bit rough. He’d sunk his teeth into the soft flesh on his side, making him writhe. He’d pressed his nails into his knee and dragged his hand up, and the angel’s toes curled. Crowley’s eyes had registered every single detail. He would play this again and again, in his mind, and he didn’t want to forget a thing.

Slowly but surely, all the signs had pointed him downwards and at the centre of the angel’s body. Crowley had wet his lips and set to work.

At first, he gave his cock a tentative kiss along its length. Encouraged by the little twitch it gave, he’d opened his lips, running them along until he got to the tip. A hand had snapped to his hair just then, and he’d smirked, although Aziraphale wasn’t watching.

No, Aziraphale’s gaze had remained unfocused in the general direction of the ceiling as Crowley took his cock into his mouth, gently at first, then playfully, trying out a few things – a press of tongue, a light graze of teeth, then closing in and sucking.

To make matters worse – or, well, better actually – as soon as the demon had completely engulfed him, lips tickling its base, he’d gave out a long moan that left no room for interpretation. _Fuck_, Aziraphale had thought, though thankfully he did not say so out loud, _he loves it._

Trouble is, Aziraphale loves it too. So that’s how he found himself pinned to the bed, a hand clinging to the sheets for dear life, the other lost somewhere in Crowley’s hair. He’s not going to last long, not at all, which is a shame, because Crowley seems to be enjoying it so much.

He’s always thought having a body was worth the effort to care of it, because this body allows him to enjoy the finest things in life. But this – this tips the scales. It’s not just worth it, it’s a miracle to have this body. This skin that rises in goosebumps and tingles and gets warm all over as Crowley applies more and more pressure around his cock. These nerves that fire off a thousand stars behind his eyes. This pleasure so intense it almost edges into pain, running, rushing towards its release.

“Crowley, I’m—”

The demon replies with a contented, hungry noise, encourages him further, one hand pumping the base while the other cups his balls. And that’s too much, already too much, and his body gives up, blood rushing to its centre and exploding like a firework.

It’s not so poetic, the reality of it, but when Aziraphale comes down, gathering his wits and looking at his lover, he finds Crowley with the back of his hands against his mouth, giving him a bright smirk, practically shining with pride.

He beckons him up and the demon slithers along his body, settling himself against his side, head resting on his shoulder. Crowley’s cock, hard and wet, presses against his thigh, waiting.

“You’re… that was…” Aziraphale puffs his cheeks and lets out a long breath. “I think I might be speechless.”

“That’s a first.” Crowley replies, still happily glowing at his side.

“I really should chide you for being so smug. But I’m going to let this slide, just this once.”

“How generous.”

“I love you.” The words wipe the grin off Crowley’s face, shot point blank in the silence of the bedroom. “I’m sorry. I had to say it.”

“No, don’t…” Crowley hides his face into his chest. “Don’t be sorry. S’fine.”

It doesn’t really matter that Crowley doesn’t say it back. His love wraps all around Aziraphale like a soft blanket, like a patch of sunlight on a cold morning. It has a different quality to it, now – it’s easy and smooth, comforting, content.

In a word, it’s happy.


	4. Flowing

On the night they decide to go to the opera, Aziraphale wears a black tuxedo. It’s not the latest trend, but it fits him to a t. And even he likes wearing something different, every now and again.

So he’s feeling pretty good about himself, until the Bentley’s tires screech outside the bookshop and he climbs in. His jaw drops open as he sees Crowley in a magnificent white dress. Crowley has slept right through the Roaring Twenties, but, apparently, that doesn’t stop him from channelling them when he feels like it. He’s slicked his hair back and has black makeup around his golden eyes. A pair of dark glasses rests on the dashboard – Aziraphale has a hunch Crowley wanted to show himself in all his splendour before putting them on again.

And what a splendour he is. The dress is made of a silky, flowy white fabric, and it swims gracefully down the angles of his body. The boat neck is high enough not to reveal any of his chest, but his shoulders and arms are completely bare. Subtle golden strands wrap around his body, from his shoulders and from the small of his back, around his hips, and meet in the front, a little lower than where his navel is. A glittery decoration hangs there, hiding the point where the strands connect. It’s a snake – Aziraphale realizes after a few seconds he’s been staring – a snake coiled into a circle.

He’s hiked the dress over his knees to be able to drive, and Aziraphale gets a glimpse of stockings.

“What?” Asks Crowley, an eyebrow raised and the face of someone who absolutely knows _what _without needing to ask. “I knew you’d be wearing black, and I decided to wear white. Isn’t that what we usually do?”

“You look breathtaking.” Aziraphale replies, finally managing to avert his gaze. Crowley responds with a small, proud hum.

As the Bentley roars on, Aziraphale realizes he won’t be the only one not able to take his eyes off of him. Crowley incarnates that androgynous space humans are, in turns, attracted to and disturbed by. And always endlessly fascinated with. People will look. They will wonder. They won’t step out of line, though – Crowley is perfectly capable, whatever he’s wearing, of incinerating anyone with a glare.

It turns out that Aziraphale is right on all accounts. People do stare at the gentleman with the out of style tuxedo and his gorgeous wife, or maybe husband, or maybe wife _now that I look closely_, on his arm.

“You still enjoy spreading some chaos, don’t you? You old serpent.”

Crowley smiles, sitting beside him, knowing innocence painted all over his face. “I wear what I want. If someone doesn’t like it, that’s their problem.”

“Trust me.” Aziraphale lets out a breathy giggle. “There is not one fool in this whole theatre who doesn’t like it.”

Crowley leans close to him, a black fingernail tracing his jawline. “I only care about one particular fool.”

“Oh, he’s the most ruined of them all.”

Crowley gives him a fond smile, and they interlace their fingers as they turn to the stage.

* * *

Later that night, back at the demon’s flat, Aziraphale pulls the dress up and up along Crowley’s endless legs, nudging him to sit on the bed. He runs his fingers on his thighs, over the lace of his stockings, licks the strip of his skin above it.

“Angel, wait.” Immediately, Aziraphale stops, not without feeling a bit confused – Crowley has never asked him to pause before. “I don’t think I should spring this on you.”

“Spring what on me, Crowley?”

“Well. See, the dress…” He shifts, covering back his thighs a little. “I had to make some adjustments.”

“Oh. To be completely honest, I assumed so already.”

Crowley gapes like a fish for a moment, then asks, “Are we sure we’re talking about the same thing?”

“If we’re discussing the fact that I’m not going to find a penis under there, then yes. I am aware.”

Crowley is stunned into silence.

“Crowley?”

“I—you—that—” Aziraphale encourages him with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “I'm sorry, I really would have never pegged you as someone who'd be interested in… that kind of thing.”

“Well, not in the general sense, I'll concede.” Still crouched on the floor in front of him, he runs his hand over the smooth bone at Crowley's knee. “But I'm very interested in you. In whatever shape or form.”

“Look. If it's some kind of sacrifice you think you have to make—”

“Crowley.”

“There's really no need—”

“Crowley, stop.” The demon does. “I've always appreciated how fluid you are. How you can change skin and still be fundamentally yourself. It's extraordinary.”

Crowley visibly relaxes, his shoulders coming down from his ears.

“Besides, I am curious. I simply—I have never done this before. You will have to show me how.”

“I will show you all that you need if you promise you'll stop the second you are uncomfortable. Am I clear? The literal second anything stops feeling great.”

“You worry so much.” Crowley glowers at him. “Fine, I promise. But dearest, you have never in your life made me do something I wasn't going to do anyway, and surely you won't start tonight.”

Crowley is still processing that last piece of information when Aziraphale pushes his dress up and out of way, his underwear aside, and plants a gentle kiss right between his legs.

In a matter of minutes, Crowley is on his back. And sure, Aziraphale is a bit clumsy, and it's obvious that he's never done this before, but it doesn't really matter in the end. He applies himself with a will, and Crowley throws his head back into the mattress when one finger pushes in. Aziraphale has always had strong, square hands, but now they’ve found a new use for them.

With some pointers, the angel manages to make Crowley shudder around his finger, then fingers, and when he presses his tongue against his clit and makes an appreciative noise, as if he's tasting something extremely good, Crowley all but loses it.

“Come here.” He tugs gently at his hair, and Aziraphale complies, getting on the bed. “No, undress first.”

While Aziraphale unbuttons his shirt and pants as fast as possible, Crowley shrugs out of his underwear. As soon as the angel is done, Crowley has him lying on his back.

He takes his hand. He turns it around, palm up, and presses its back into the angel’s own thigh. He straddles his leg and rubs himself against his fingers, slowly. And then faster, when Aziraphale not only doesn’t protest, but curls his fingers into him, biting down on his lower lip in concentration.

Aziraphale’s movements are very limited, and yet he manages to angle his hand just so. He presses the soft, fleshy part of his palm at the base of his thumb against his clit as Crowley slides against him, again and again, until the demon tenses up completely, one hand grasping at Aziraphale’s arm and the other clutching at his dress, holding it out of the way. He makes a low, long sound, his body clenching around Aziraphale’s fingers as he comes.

It takes him a second to disentangle himself from Aziraphale. The angel looks at him in awe, then takes his hand back and idly massages his wrist. Worth it. He could do that another million times, until his hand falls off.

Generally, when Crowley comes, they wait a while before starting anything again. Not this time. This time, Crowley’s eyes shine with want as he presses into Aziraphale, searching for more. He’s straddling his hips and about to grind against him when he hesitates, then stops altogether. Both him and the angel look down and realize at the same time that, with this particular _configuration_, they’ll likely end up doing something very different from simply rubbing against each other, if Crowley presses down now.

“I want to.” Aziraphale says quickly, cock hard and untouched ready for him. “If you do too.”

Crowley only replies with a strangled noise. Then, he seems to make a decision and begins lowering himself over him. He takes in one inch of his cock at a time, painstakingly slow. When it’s completely inside and Crowley stops, Aziraphale palms at his thighs through the stockings, willing himself to stay perfectly still and wait.

And still he keeps, until it’s Crowley who starts shifting. Slow, focused, a frown on his face that quickly turns to pleasure as he finds the right rhythm – and it’s easier than expected from there. Crowley begins to move faster and Aziraphale can’t help staring at him, amazed. He’s so soft and slick and tight around him. He’s still wearing his dress, crumpled now, and his hair is ruffled, and he’s absolutely a vision. There’s something wild and domineering and painfully beautiful about him as he rides him harder and harder into the mattress.

And then, once again, Crowley is grabbing his hand, guiding it between his legs. Aziraphale presses his thumb against his clit and again, he feels Crowley going tense. His moans turn higher, louder, and then he’s tensing up once more, and warmth and wetness engulf Aziraphale. It would make him come right there and then if he wasn’t trying very hard not to.

When the demon slumps against him, Aziraphale rubs his back, still pulsing into him.

“I’m—” Crowley begins.

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry now.” Aziraphale cuts him off, his tone a bit sharper than he intended. “I loved it. I love you.”

Crowley breaths out against his shoulder, relaxing. Then, after a moment, “Keep going?”

“Er, yes. But you must know I—”

“Finish inside me. Please.”

Those words are all that’s needed to set him on fire. Aziraphale’s hand searches for Crowley’s face, gently nudging him away from his hiding spot and towards him, so they can kiss. If the angel could communicate how much awe and desire he’s bottling up inside him right now, he would. But he’s momentarily lost the ability to express such complex concepts. His blood has rushed to his cock and to his face and nothing else seems to be working properly.

Cautiously, he turns them over, laying Crowley on his back. The demon takes a second to place a pillow under his ass. He counters Aziraphale’s interrogative eyebrow raise with a, “Supposed to make it better. I heard.”

Aziraphale leans down for another kiss, smiling against his lips. “There is hardly any need to make it better. I’m already grasping at straws here.”

“Let go, then.” Crowley replies with a roll of his hips.

And so Aziraphale obeys. At first, he studies Crowley’s face with each thrust, making sure he’s doing it right. Then, reassured by the demon’s fingers sinking into his back, he finally forgets himself and pushes in and out, chasing the waves of pleasure cursing through his body, from his cock to his limbs to his brain.

It’s an eternity to them, but it’s also less than five minutes to the world before he spills inside him, clutching at his shoulders, pulling him in, somehow trying to bury himself even deeper inside him.

And then he collapses over Crowley, utterly spent.

As soon as he’s able to speak again, he asks, voice hoarse and low: “How—”

“Great.” Crowley runs a hand through his soft hair, blesses him with a small smile.

“Did it hurt at all?”

“Meh.” He shrugs. “Stung a little, at the beginning. I don’t think that just because it’s called _penetration_ it’s supposed to hurt, if you’re doing it right. Humans have all sorts of wild ideas about fucking.”

Aziraphale nods. “If I remember correctly, some ancient East Asian philosophies taught men that women would drain their life essence through their sperm.”

“See, now that’s brilliant. I should start doing that.” That earns him a stern look from the angel – or, well, an attempt at a stern look. “You do look quite drained.”

“A little, yes.” He rolls over and lies on his side, propping himself up on an elbow to cup Crowley’s face in one hand. “Talking about human ideas, would you prefer to be called something else when you, um.” He gestures at Crowley’s body, half still covered in the white dress, half bare except for the stockings.

Crowley looks down at the happy mess they made. “I don’t really care, no. ‘A rose by any other name’ and all that crap.”

“I thought you hated Shakespeare’s tragedies. _Particularly_ Romeo and Juliet.”

“Well, I do. He wrote a play out of nobody having any blasted patience.”

“It's a story about love.”

“It's a story about being bloody stupid is what it is.”

“You know,” Aziraphale presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Not everyone has enough patience to last them six thousand years.”

Crowley gives an exaggerated sigh. “Do I at least get a prize?”

Aziraphale kisses him tenderly. “You tell me.”

Crowley smiles into the kiss.

“_Hm_. Think I did.”

* * *

And there it is, after all, unearthed by all their ministrations, the pushing and pulling, the hiding and searching, the dance they’ve been engaging in for six thousand years. There it is, the difference between them, stark as the difference between empty and full. What makes them two separate beings, constantly pulled towards each other, attracted to each other, needing and wanting the other. The thing that makes them clash against each other, bicker and fight, and love one another more than words can say.

Aziraphale is a warrior. Not the kind Heaven wants, not the kind he’s scared of becoming. But he is anyway. He’s a defender. He settles into his territory, makes his nest, hoards the things he loves. He protects them. Protecting is all he’s been doing since the beginning of time, since giving away his flaming sword.

He tries to soften his edges; he wants peace more than anything. He wants everything to feel easy, and light, and comforting, and so he makes himself sweet and welcoming. No one who really knows him, though, thinks they could cross him without dire consequences.

Sometimes his disposition spills out of him, a tone more aggressive than intended, an icy look, a sharp word. He never hurts, would never want to, but it’s just enough to let anyone know – he could, it’s right there under the surface. His stubborn cautiousness kept him and Crowley safe for the millennium their arrangement lasted, his cleverness and cold blood saved them from extinction.

And the thing he appreciates the most about his demon is that, around him, Aziraphale _can _be soft. As soft as he wants. His defences don’t need to be up around him. Crowley would bitch if he ever told him so, but he’s _so_ incredibly gentle. He shows his teeth and shouts and circles him threateningly, and then in every single way that actually matters he’s extraordinarily tender.

Aziraphale doesn’t have to be a warrior around him. He can be harmless and gentle. He can be as soft as a cloud, if he wants to.

For all their spats and snits, Aziraphale has never, ever regretted becoming Crowley’s friend, and then becoming his lover. Not for a second. He’s not even sure how he managed to function before, in the vast, cold loneliness of Heaven. He never fit in. He tried, he tried so very hard. God must know he did. What a blessing, then, to be sent to Earth, discover himself little by little whenever Heaven was looking the other way. Find all the greys that colour his whites.

Crowley would like to think of himself as a questioner. That’s his role in the story, from the very beginning. Cast out of Heaven for asking questions. Convincing the humans knowing the difference between right and wrong would be good. Prodding at Aziraphale’s doubts for thousands of years, questioning, making him question. Shouting straight at God when he can’t find the answers.

And he is a questioner too, no doubt about it. But, at his core, Crowley is a lover.

He would flinch at the word and recoil, but as someone who’s spent six thousand years pining without saying a peep, he could hardly deny it. Since meeting Aziraphale, he’s been orbiting around him, drawing closer and closer as time went by.

He would have a hard time admitting out loud how much of his hopes rest in the soft, strong hands of an angel. But he trusts Aziraphale, always has. He always knew he would come around and accept they were a team, he just didn’t know when it was going to happen. He would trust him with his life – he has, in the past. And he trusts him with his heart. He’s been burned before, and then he had to harden up so that Hell wouldn’t swallow him whole. It is nothing short of a miracle that he’s able to open himself up again. To an angel, no less.

Aziraphale, who accepts all parts of him. Aziraphale, who wears two-hundred-year-old clothes but can somehow love the ever-changing flow of his identity, and still, without fail, recognize him every single time. Aziraphale, who knows him better than anyone, and possibly better than he knows himself.

Aziraphale who has never, ever flinched at his unblinking yellow eyes.

Happiness takes different shapes for the two of them. For Aziraphale, it’s a bookshop filled with the things he loves, the knick-knacks he’s collected throughout history, a cup of warm cocoa. For Crowley, is a roaring Bentley filled with his favourite music, to run as fast as possible.

But the bookshop would feel empty without the many late-night conversations over a glass of alcohol of one kind or another, without a chair positioned to catch perfectly the morning sun that Aziraphale never remembers putting there, without Crowley’s dirty shoes on the couch, although he’s been told over and over not to do that.

And the Bentley wouldn’t mean anything if Crowley couldn’t use it to run to his angel. If he couldn’t bring Aziraphale anywhere he wants to go. If Crowley couldn’t picture the two of them leaving together, towards whatever adventure they fancy.

In the end, for both of them, happiness is knowing they can fall, in all the possible meanings of the word, and be caught every single time.

* * *

Aziraphale starts by kissing the centre of his palm.

“Such beautiful hands. So graceful.” He turns Crowley’s hand around, lightly presses his lips to each knuckle. “So strong, too.”

Crowley swallows a sigh when the angel’s lips close around one finger, sucking. It doesn’t help that, while Aziraphale is fully clothed, Crowley is stark naked, and that he’s been – well, not quite _ordered_ to, but very strongly _persuaded_ to lie back on the bed, completely exposed. Not that he needed much convincing at all in the first place. Aziraphale just had to point out, with a dip of his eyelashes, that it would do Crowley good to lie down and relax. Oh, and preferably not move at all, thank you.

The angel leaves another kiss on his wrist, feeling Crowley’s racing pulse beat against his mouth. “You truly are a wonder.” He runs his lips along the inside of Crowley’s forearm, watching goosebumps rise before his eyes. “Oh, dearest. Your skin here is so incredibly soft. Marvellous.”

Crowley has begun breathing faster, body twitching all over, aching to curl up into a ball. He stares at Aziraphale, transfixed.

The angel leaves an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of his elbow, then keeps travelling up along his arm, to his shoulder. There, he finds a knot, which he massages gently with the soft pads of his fingers. “Everything is well. We’re safe. I will take care of you.” He drops another kiss along the demon’s jawline. “I will make absolutely sure you know how loved you are. You shall have not a shadow of doubt when I’m finished.”

The sound that Crowley doesn’t manage to bite back is something between a moan and an incredulous whimper.

Aziraphale is aware that bearing the full extent of his love is a tremendous task. But then again, he’s constantly hit in the face with Crowley’s relentless adoration of him. He wants to give something back. He _has_ to give something back. It’s not fair the Crowley doesn’t know the depths of his feelings for him. If he has to invent new words for it, he will. If he has to spend a week, a month, a year, covering his body in kisses and promises, he will. Even if Crowley melts and evaporates in his hands.

“Oh Lord, and your neck...” Crowley swallows, and Aziraphale runs his fingertips from his jaw down to his collarbone. He leans over him, sucking at the sensitive skin along his throat. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn entire wars have been fought over it.”

“Angel…” Crowley practically begs, red in the face. “I can’t… it’s too much.”

“It’s too little.” Aziraphale cups his cheek in his hand. “Aren’t you enjoying this?”

Crowley opens his mouth to reply, but his eyes flash down at his cock, standing completely erect, already wet.

“I…”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Crowley turns his face away from him, the blush spreading to his neck. His voice is very quiet when he replies. “No.”

“Oh, great. I was not done at all.” He briefly wonders whether to go up or down from there, but down seems like a better option. Crowley is already torn between crawling away from him and staying there, being so sweetly tortured. By the looks of it, he would hide his entire face under a pillow if he could. Better not to praise the perfect arch of his eyebrows or his lovely lips. Yet.

So Aziraphale turns his attention downwards instead. Which is both better and worse for Crowley.

He seals his lips over a hard nipple, then laps at it with his tongue a few times. He keeps his hands spread over the demon’s chest, feels his muscles tense and release and tense again. He rests his ear over his heart for a moment, hearing it thump wildly against his cheek. He gives Crowley a satisfied hum.

“You’re having a little too much fun, Aziraphale.” Crowley breaths out. “Tormenting me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.” Aziraphale smiles, running the tip of a fingernail in circles around a nipple, earning a sharp intake of breath from Crowley.

“You know very well what you’re doing.” He sinks his hand into Aziraphale’s hair, giving it a very gentle tug.

Aziraphale looks up, eyelashes flickering a few times, coy. “I’m an angel, I can’t do anything wrong.”

Crowley responds with a wicked grin. “I never said it was _wrong_.”

“I shall continue, then.” Aziraphale shifts to kiss him, a quick peck on the lips before he’s gone again, sitting by Crowley’s feet. He runs a finger lightly across his toes, then his whole palm up and down the side of his ankle. “The ancient Greeks were right about some matters. The ankles truly are one of the most erotic, beautiful parts of the body.”

“Prudes, the whole lot of them.” Mutters Crowley. “It was the only part of women they could see. Of course they fixated on the ankles.”

“Maybe so.” He climbs fully on the bed, parting Crowley’s legs and kneeling between. “The men, though – so often naked. And you, back then.”

He starts at Crowley’s shins. He drags his hands up, slowly, reaches and passes over his knees, glides over his thighs, awakening every inch of skin in his wake. Crowley starts saying something, but it dies on his lips as Aziraphale’s fingers crawl dangerously close to his cock.

“What a sight you were. With your long curls down your back, so cocksure of yourself you were almost shining in the sun. I have to wonder how many of them were inspired by you. I could swear I’ve seen your body in a variety of sculptures and paintings all over the world.” He kisses the inside of Crowley’s thigh, making him shiver. “My personal punishment throughout the history of the human race. Constantly reminding me of what I couldn’t have.”

“How long…” Crowley takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “How long did you…”

“Want you?” As he talks, he studies Crowley’s legs with the utmost attention, determines he should place a wet kiss on the inner part of his knee. So he does. Then he adds another two, coming closer to his groin, and then one more in the juncture between his thigh and his body, for good measure. Crowley all but winces. “I really couldn’t answer that. Long before I was aware I wanted anything.”

“But when did you first—ah, _fuck_.” At long last, Aziraphale has grabbed the base of his cock, although he’s not doing anything with it yet. Just squeezing, edging Crowley further along without giving him enough.

“I think the first time I openly admitted to myself I had a… reaction, shall we say, to you, was after the Reign of Terror.”

“You _what_?! In the—_ngk_—eighteenth century?”

“Well, there had been instances long before. Many of them, if I’m being honest.” He begins nonchalantly stroking up and down as he speaks. “But I always chalked it up to the excitement of our illicit friendship. I ignored them. I thought something was fundamentally wrong with me. I foolishly thought it would go away.”

Finally, he begins pumping in earnest. He lowers his voice, staring at Crowley’s face, features twisted in pleasure, knowing full well the effect each of his words will have. “I would find myself flustered and helpless, thinking about you. But how could I not?”

Crowley brings a hand to his mouth and bites, blocking the noises he’s making.

“Oh no, Crowley. Let me hear you. I so adore your voice when you’re undone.” Slowly, the demon leaves his mouth alone, grabbing at the sheets instead. “You make the loveliest sounds.”

Aziraphale leans down to press his tongue flat against the head of his cock. Crowley’s hips buck up towards his mouth, but Aziraphale is not done talking just yet. “Eventually, I had no choice but to admit it, at least to myself.”

“You…” Crowley keeps his eyes tightly shut, face turned to the ceiling. “Did you touch yourself—”

Somehow, Aziraphale manages to blush. He doesn’t lie, though – if only because he’s completely dedicated to giving Crowley everything and anything he needs. “Well, yes. Many times.” The demon makes a strangled sound of pleasure at that. “You almost made me lose my reason. You still do.”

Aziraphale choses that moment to miracle his clothes away, all of them in one single swoop. He straddles him, his own cock brushing against Crowley’s as he keeps stroking. It throbs in his fingers, rock-hard and hot.

“If only you could see how you look right now. If you could feel yourself…” Shaking, Crowley brings a hand to circle Aziraphale’s, moving in time with him. “Ah, _yes_. Brilliant.”

Crowley’s free hand grabs at Aziraphale’s head, pulling him into a heated kiss. Then, the demon breaks free of it, gasping for air. “It’s too much. _Fuck_—angel, it’s too much.”

“Let me feel you let go, then.” Aziraphale purrs in his ear. “You’ve done so well. You’re so wonderful. I love you, Crowley. I love you. I love you. I—”

Crowley comes with a force that almost shakes the bed. All of him tenses in that moment, from the hand around Aziraphale’s to his limbs to his throat. He gives a loud, unrestrained moan, drowning out Aziraphale’s words. It’s okay—both of them know what he was going to say. Aziraphale closes his eyes and drinks it all in – the beautiful sound he makes, the feeling of the demon’s body beneath him, taut like a bowstring, the warm spill between them.

It takes a while for Crowley to remember how fingers work. As soon as he does, he snaps his fingers, clearing them up.

Aziraphale lets himself fall on him, and Crowley immediately holds him tight. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t say much of anything. He runs a hand on Aziraphale’s bare back, getting small, pleased noises from him.

But when Aziraphale looks up at him, he sees exactly what he hoped to see. Crowley is almost glowing. The features of his face are relaxed, as Aziraphale hasn’t seen them in a long, long time. He looks like someone who, after days and days of thirst, finally drank straight from a spring. Maybe, just maybe – he’s finally done it, he’s convinced Crowley of his love beyond any reasonable doubt. He can never repair his old wounds, but he can make love to him, cherish each and every one of his scars.

“Angel.” Crowley’s love for Aziraphale spills out of him in the silence of the room, thick and heavy, overflowing. Aziraphale feels it touching him in a part of him that is nowhere and everywhere, lodging itself inside. He gasps. It’s not unpleasant – it feels like something finally clicking into the place that it was meant to be from the very beginning. It’s a point of no return. Crowley mutters quietly. “Me too. You know that, right?”

Aziraphale sighs into his lover’s shoulder, his skin tingling, his soul adjusting around its new shape. And then it rises again, that bubbling happiness in his chest, soothing and exhilarating at the same time.

“Yes, dearest.” He looks up at his demon, beaming at him. “I _Know_.”


	5. Perfect

The wall is cold and harsh against his cheek. However, Aziraphale right now is more concerned with the literal demon behind his back, ravishing him, making all the buttons of his shirt pop off. He watches them bounce on the floor, feeling an automatic tinge of regret – but he knows that Crowley will fix everything for him, later. He’s being so good to him, doing exactly as Aziraphale asked, down to the way he’s holding him against the wall face first.

Crowley has a hand around his waist, pressing their bodies together, his teeth sinking into the back of Aziraphale’s neck, most definitely leaving a mark. The angel feels his cock awakening, filling, and standing completely erect in a matter of seconds.

Crowley wraps a hand around his throat, forcing his head to bend to the side, giving him full access to the angel’s neck. He licks a hot, wet strip all the way to his ear.

“All those centuries doing both your job and mine…” He growls against the shell of his ear, the sound sending sparks down Aziraphale’s spine. “You’ve become too good at tempting, my little angel. Look what you’ve done.”

Aziraphale lets out a small yelp when Crowley presses his erection against his ass, forcing him even closer to the wall. Crowley intertwines their fingers on both hands. He moves Aziraphale’s hands until his arms are spread and both of his palms are pressing into the smooth surface of the wall.

Aziraphale leans his head back, angling for a kiss. Instead, he gets the sound of Crowley’s teeth snapping closed half an inch from his lips. His mouth goes dry and his mind goes blank.

He’s not exactly sure why he wanted this so much. It might have something to do with the fact that, from the moment he was thought into existence, Aziraphale has never belonged to himself, not really. He belonged to Heaven. And how could he reconcile Heaven’s requests and restrictions with the fact he so badly wanted Crowley, in every possible sense of the word?

It was the most obvious loophole – if Crowley would just manhandle him and do to him a number of things, then Aziraphale wouldn’t be responsible. He would be just a passive participant. In his fantasies, Aziraphale conveniently ignored it was very likely Crowley wouldn’t have been able to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. Then again, they have never tested their strength against each other, so who the hell even knows. He had plausible deniability, and that was enough.

The Crowley in his fantasies knew his thoughts inside and out without him having to speak a word. He would recognize and respect an actual no, but he would also be able to tell when Aziraphale said no and meant _convince me_. He would be able to discern between his ‘_yes, absolutely’_, his ‘_yes, but’_, and his ‘_yes, if’_.

The Crowley that actually exists in reality, on the other hand, has wanted a very comprehensive rundown of what is okay and what isn’t. As soon as he figured out his angel had a need he wasn’t meeting, he took on that casual attitude of his, slouching around the house, lazing on a couch, on a chair, on the bed. Coincidentally, always in the room where Aziraphale was currently staying. He’s teased information out of him, little by little, nonchalantly asking small pointed questions, peppering them here and there throughout the day. Without making a big deal of it, he’s gently grilled Aziraphale on every small detail of his fantasies in a matter of days.

And he’s making perfect use of his newfound knowledge, slipping seamlessly into the role of bad, filthy demon who’s going to corrupt the poor innocent angel.

Crowley grabs at his white-blond curls, yanking his head back. The other hand reaches for Aziraphale’s pants, and another button falls to the floor. “My angel. Mine and mine alone.”

“I’m yours.” Aziraphale sighs, and for a fleeting moment he sees with the corner of his eyes a devastatingly lovesick expression on Crowley’s face. The demon is quick to put on his act again, a moment later.

That’s it, that’s what it is – Heaven’s ‘love’ always felt empty and fake. A sheer veil of kindness to cover the ugly threats underneath. Aziraphale catches himself thinking he doesn’t want that, not anymore. Every now and then, he wants to be loved aggressively, unapologetically, in a way that feels truer. He wants to be taken, no questions asked. No kind smiles, no gentle hands on his cheek. Raw desire, hot and dangerous as it can be.

His pants drop to the floor, pooling around his ankles. He’s still wearing his shoes, socks and sock suspenders, bands tight just below the knee – Crowley does _so_ love his sock suspenders, possibly the only part of his clothes he truly appreciates.

Crowley almost rips the waistcoat off his back. He scrunches up his shirt until it’s rumpled around his shoulders. Then he grabs him at the hips, fingers tight enough to bruise. Aziraphale moans and presses back into him, thinking about the lovely constellation of marks he’ll find on his skin the next day. He won’t miracle those away.

Adding to it, Crowley begins bestowing scattered bites all around his spine, starting between his shoulder blades and moving lower and lower. Aziraphale arches his back until his stomach is pressed into the wall, but, despite his shifting, Crowley’s teeth do not leave him for a moment. He could swear the demon went above and beyond and miracled himself a bit of fangs just for the occasion.

Once he’s reached and tasted the soft dimples above his ass, Crowley stands back up and presses against him again, grabbing him at the shoulders. Aziraphale feels him blow into the shorter hair at the base of his skull, and all of the angel’s clothes disappear in a blink. Crowley nudges a knee between his bare legs, pushes them to part for him.

The demon grabs one of his arms, twisting it behind his back, pressing Aziraphale’s palm against the hardness in his pants. Aziraphale realizes in that moment that they can’t look too different from the statue Crowley has in his flat. The one where angels are ‘wrestling’. His cock twitches, aching to be touched.

“Crowley, I’m…”

He can feel the demon’s devilish smile into his shoulder. “Enjoying this?”

Aziraphale should put up an act. He should try to behave as if he wants to evade the question. Or, at least, he should try not to sound as fucking enthusiastic as he does when he moans out, “God, _yes_.”

That must have thrown Crowley for a loop, because he forgets himself for a moment, grinding into Aziraphale, eyes glazed over. Then, he shakes himself out of it and clicks his tongue at him. Leave it to Aziraphale to ask for something and then fail to hold up his end of the bargain.

He lets go of his arm. “On your knees.”

“But—”

“_Now_, angel.” He demands, in the same voice he uses to talk to his plants. Aziraphale’s breath hitches in his throat. Crowley keeps a hand on his shoulder, pressing down, and drops to the floor with him.

Crowley sits on the balls of his feet, pulling Aziraphale in his lap, back against the demon’s chest, knees spread open. He presses two fingers against the angel’s lips, and Aziraphale is, again, a bit too happy to let them in deep, until the corner of his mouth strains against the knuckle. He hears Crowley making a strange sound behind him, it starts as a raspy moan but he quickly closes his mouth, turning it into a low hum.

Crowley’s fingers are dripping wet when they leave his lips, and the demon uses them to paint a slick line from his throat to a nipple. He flickers at the pink nub, squeezes it between thumb and forefinger. Aziraphale arches his back, arms flying up and behind him. He digs his fastidiously manicured nails into Crowley’s shoulders, scratching up towards the back of his neck.

Crowley switches tactics then. His arms wrap around Aziraphale’s waist, not unlike the coils of a boa, and he squeezes. Aziraphale gasps, feeling Crowley’s arms digging into his lungs. His head starts to spin, although he’d swear it has less to do with his restricted breathing and more to do with everything else that’s happening.

Crowley’s hands crawls down Aziraphale’s body, all the way to his spread knees. He squeezes a path along the angel’s thick, soft thighs, pulling them even farther apart as he goes.

“Up on your knees.” He growls, and this time Aziraphale obeys immediately, standing on his knees, arms coming down. The more he feels the heat of Crowley’s hands on his thighs, the more his cock aches to be touched. His hips buck up of their own accord, and he lets out a pitiful, needy noise. Crowley pays him no mind.

Aziraphale is distracted by the fingers suddenly cupping his balls and doesn’t immediately feel the hand on his ass, pressing between his cheeks. He shudders in Crowley’s arms when a magically slick finger pushes in.

For a moment, Crowley becomes very serious. “How does it feel?”

The way Crowley wrapped his arms over his lungs has nothing on the wave of love that hits him in that moment, taking his breath away much more suddenly and efficiently. He can feel it, almost tangible, all of Crowley’s energy straining towards him, doing its absolute, utmost best to please him. Dancing wildly whenever he gets a positive reaction out of Aziraphale.

“More than perfect.” He answers, honestly, in an outbreath. The love around him sizzles and sparks.

Crowley smiles against his skin. “I’ll do better then.”

And better he does. Aziraphale completely loses track of time and space, drowning into Crowley’s love for him without ever suffocating. There’s pain and there’s pleasure and Crowley seems to be everywhere, in the air all around him, sinking deeper into him with every breath Aziraphale takes.

He floats in and out of the present moment, until he finds himself on his knees and elbows, skin chafed from rubbing against the wooden floor. Crowley is still behind him, holding him at the waist, and he’s pulling out the fingers he’s pushed into him. He still hasn’t touched his cock, but Aziraphale has gained a few more bruises and bite marks in the meantime. Crowley’s skin has been scratched and pinched wherever Aziraphale could reach.

More time than Aziraphale could realize must have passed, because, when Crowley presses the tip of his cock into him, his fingers shake on Aziraphale’s hips. How long have they been at it? He couldn’t tell. All he knows is that, when Crowley pushes in, he’s completely stretched for him, and burning hot, and craving him in any possible way. The demon begins thrusting, and shocks of pleasure-pain flash through Aziraphale’s body, wrecking him. The pleasure originates from the joining of their bodies, the pain from the erection still standing on end, untouched.

It’s been building excruciatingly slowly, but it ends quickly. Crowley finally, finally wraps a hand around his cock, and it only takes him a few proper strokes to make Aziraphale explode beneath him with a long, desperate sound that shakes Crowley at his core. Aziraphale clenches and pushes back against him. Crowley follows him very quickly, only a couple of thrusts before he releases into him.

And then they collapse to the floor.

* * *

Later, in bed, Crowley kisses each and every bruise, bite and scratch on Aziraphale’s body, making him giggle when his lips tickle a sensitive spot.

“Crowley, really now… it’s not necessary at all!”

“Shut up.” Crowley replies, continuing his mission of finding every single mark he’s made. “It’s for me.”

“Oh, fine. Just this once.” Aziraphale doesn’t even try to hide the big, satisfied smile on his face. He cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair. The demon over him presses his lips against a scratch right below his left nipple. “Crowley, listen… I know that was not quite your preference. I hope you—”

“Angel, I loved it.” Crowley stops to look at him in the eyes, raising an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have thought of it myself, no. But seeing you and how much you…”

Aziraphale smiles at the silly blush on Crowley’s cheeks. What an unbelievably sweet, soft demon he has for himself.

“How much I _what_, dearest?”

“You get it.” Crowley sinks down on his chest, curling up against him. He closes his eyes and yawns.

“Oh.” Aziraphale murmurs, wrapping his arms around him. “Are we going to sleep?”

“I deserve a nap.” Crowley makes himself comfortable, pulling the covers over them. “I’m taking it on you.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. Come to think of it, he could use a kip too. And Crowley feels just lovely on his chest, quiet and serene.

He doesn’t usually dream, but this time he does. He doesn’t remember the details, but it’s a dream that smells like Crowley’s hair, that feels soft as the curve of his neck, and cradles him, fierce and warm, much like his love.

* * *

Soho is a very vibrant neighbourhood. It’s not surprising to see new shops pop up at every change of season. The one Aziraphale loves the most, from the very first day it opens on a bright spring morning, is a small café that doubles as a library. The aesthetic is very close to his own. All the chairs are ridiculously plush, the walls are lined with bookshelves, and their assortment of cakes is out of this world.

Crowley comments immediately that they’ll be out of business in three months’ time. There is no way they’ll have enough customers, their idea is not that original, and they’re spending too much money to turn a profit.

Even if he’ll turn out to be right, the café immediately attracts two regulars. One is a kind man, around fifty years old, with curls so white and fluffy they look like a cloud. The other is his permanently angry husband, all sharp angles and black leather, patently coming along just because he has to. The staff learns very quickly to leave them alone. Their tips are always very generous.

Aziraphale alternates between scrumptious cakes and historical novels while Crowley sips on iced tea and taps on his phone. At the tenth time the angel tells him he doesn’t have to be there, you know, he can go anywhere else if he’s bored, Crowley gives up and gets a book himself. Just to spite Aziraphale, who looks at him full of pride when he finally approaches a bookshelf, he goes scouting in the children’s section.

“Really, now?” Aziraphale scrunches up his nose when Crowley comes back. “Harry Potter? Of all the books in here?”

“It’s a book, no?” Crowley shrugs. “Get back to your novel.”

Aziraphale sighs a very long sigh, but lets it go.

A few hours and a few cakes later, Crowley is making it through the whole series. Aziraphale doesn’t comment on the fact that the demon has always insisted he doesn’t ‘do books’. Nor does he point out that, while Crowley maintains he does it to keep up with human pop culture, he deeply enjoys TV shows just as much as he seems to be engrossed in the Harry Potter books right now.

When he finishes the seventh and final book in the series, Crowley puts it down on the table and looks at Aziraphale. The angel feels a shift in his attitude, from relaxed to serious, and he also sets his book down to look at him in the—well, glasses.

“The whole business with Gabriel, do you think… do you think that they couldn’t destroy me with holy water because of you?” He absentmindedly taps at his book with his fingertips. “Because of what you feel for me?”

Aziraphale lifts up both eyebrows, thinking it over. “Well… possibly. I have to admit I still don’t know. There has never been an angel in love with a demon before. We can’t really be sure of anything. I would guess I was protecting you without even being aware of it, yes. Just as you were protecting me.”

“So it had nothing to do with you sacrificing something that was very important to you for my sake?”

“Crowley, where is this even coming from?” He looks down at Crowley’s book on the table. “It doesn’t matter. I am a hundred percent happy with every single one of my choices.” He searches for Crowley’s hand, finds it on his knee. He gives it a small squeeze and smiles. “And it was for myself, too. I couldn’t have stayed in Heaven a second longer.”

Crowley seems content with this answer. He gives him a very small smile back. “I have another question.”

“Yes?”

“Can you pick me another book?”

“Oh, sure! Thought you’d never ask!” Aziraphale stands up in a hurry, his excitement palpable. “I have so many recommendations for you!”

He’s back twenty minutes later with a pile of books so tall, he can’t see beyond it.

Predictably, he bumps into a chair, then into a waitress. It’s only by a small demonic miracle that she doesn’t spill coffee all over them and the books.

“O-oh Lord!” Aziraphale babbles. “Sorry, so terribly sorry…”

Crowley props himself up on an elbow and rests his cheek in his palm. Despite himself, he has the fondest smile on his face.

“Here he comes.” He says to no one in particular, although both the waitress and Aziraphale are close enough to overhear him. Maybe he’s been listening to too much bebop – too much Queen in particular.

“My best friend.” He looks at Aziraphale, stumbling his way to him. “The love of my fucking life.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was MONUMENTAL. why do I do this to myself???  
hope you enjoyed the trip guys 😊


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